


Natural Beauty

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Long Way To You [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can see the headline now. <i>‘Queen loses eye to mascara wand in sex gamble gone wrong, story exclusive to The Daily Mail.’</i> Wouldn’t that just make her grandmother proud?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natural Beauty

It’s one of their less practical ideas. There’s barely any room for Jon under Margaery’s vanity, and before he figured out that he could push the little padded stool back to give him room for his head, he’d spent several tantalizingly frustrating minutes with his head cocked at an angle between her thighs, attempting to get his tongue close enough to do some good. Once he did figure it out and was able to push her knees far enough apart to settle in, his satisfied groan had been loud enough to drown out her own. Margaery’s glad she’d only been putting on foundation at the time. Had she been wielding a mascara wand, she might have blinded herself.

She can see the headline now. _‘Queen loses eye to mascara wand in sex gamble gone wrong, story exclusive to The Daily Mail.’_ Wouldn’t that just make her grandmother proud?

Margaery regards the makeup scattered across the top of her vanity warily. Before today they’d seemed such harmless things, jokes she might make about the patriarchy notwithstanding. But now…everything seems too hard, too pointy, too sharp. She may have bitten off more than she could chew with this bet business. But Jon had known precisely what to dangle in front of her to make it irresistible. She hasn’t said a word about Jon’s hair, how long and scraggly it’s grown of late, but he knows her well enough by now to read her pursed lips and arched brow whenever she touches his unkempt curls, which are not a ‘tall befitting a King.

“Free reign,” he’d said. “Any style, any length. My hair is yours to do with as you will. All you have to do is put on a perfect face of make-up.”

“Surely that’s not all?” she’d asked. His smirk deepened into a grin at that and he stepped close enough to crowd her, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep her eyes on his. 

“Well, I’d be eating you out at the time,” he said. “I want to see if you can put your face on while I put my face in your cunt.”

She shudders now at the memory of his words, gripping the edge of her vanity and exhaling a long, shaky breath. Jon is not often inclined to even mild vulgarities, which only makes it all the more potent when he indulges. She’d never have expected such a thing when she first married him, that he’d take such obvious pleasure in teasing her with filthy words. Nor that he’d be so very keen on making bets. He’s full of surprises, is her husband. But this is one bet he won’t be winning, no matter what magic his tongue is plying between her legs right now. She’ll have that hair properly trimmed if it’s the last thing she does. Or more accurately, Walters will do it, but she’ll supervise, which is close enough. And right now only a vial of liquid liner stands between her and victory.

Margaery takes a deep steadying breath, trying to compose herself. He’s sucking at her now, drawing her labia into his mouth with exquisite care. She looks at herself in the mirror, watching herself nibble off the lipstick she’s already applied twice. Third time’s a charm, she thinks as she slicks on another coat. Jon grips her hips at just that moment and pulls himself closer to her, his mouth opening wide over her as he works his tongue in firm strokes that end in delicate flicks against the underside of her clitoris. Margaery’s reflection blurs as her eyes lose focus, her lipstick falling to the marble vanity top with a click. God, but he is really fucking good at this. The sounds coming from beneath her vanity are so wet and obscene they could make a virgin blush.

Well. Margaery’s no virgin but her cheeks won’t be needing any cosmetic assistance, it seems. She wants nothing more than to push back her vanity stool, spread her knees as wide as she’s able, and moan like a cat in heat, but a bet is a bet and she’ll be damned if she gives him the satisfaction of seeing anything less than a flawless cat’s eye.

Steeling herself, she reaches for her liquid liner, something she really shouldn’t have saved for last. Hubris, she supposes. She’s always fancied herself a sexual person, but there was always an element of control before that came to her effortlessly; sex was a calculated letting go. It’s just one of the many things in her life that have changed since she married Jon, but sometimes it seems bigger than all the other things combined, even becoming a Queen and being thrust into the public eye. Margaery had always been able to see herself in such a position, even as a girl, not through any particular self-regard but rather as a function of her place in society, of the ambitions of her family. But to be so unhinged at the hands of a man in such personal and intimate ways…well that was far more unexpected.

Jon seams his lips about her clit and sucks, just hard enough to make her mind go blank. Her hands sweep across her vanity to clutch hard at the sides; she knocks her powder over with the motion, a white cloud sifting over her hand and forearm as the tin clatters and rolls across the floor. Good thing she’d already put that on. Though her face is feeling rather dewy, possibly more than could be passed off as a youthful glow. Fuck it, the liquid liner is out. Margaery fumbles for an eyeliner pencil and shakes the loose powder off her hand before raising it to pull at her temple, keeping her eyelid taut and managing a perfect sweep of liner before Jon shifts and murmurs affectionate nonsense against her sensitive flesh, calling her his sweet girl as his beard scratches and tickles and teases all at once. Her hand trembles.

“Just one more, old girl, you can do this,” she mutters to herself. His lips curve into what feels like a smile against her; he must have heard. And taken it as a challenge. He seems set on dismantling her now, his tongue sweet and insistent and thoroughly devastating.

It’s an act of sheer will, finishing her second eye with only the slightest wobble. She thinks to fix it, but it’s as if the last flick of the eyeliner pencil gave her body permission to succumb, because suddenly her orgasm catches her up like a hook, pulling from the base of her spine with delicious pressure. Margaery can only grip the pencil in one hand, her other hand dropping to Jon’s head at her lap, her fingers spearing through the unruly curls that got her into this mess and tightening with the force of her climax. Jon makes a rough, pleased sound, clearly willing to have his hair ripped out at the roots if need be, given that he keeps licking at her, almost instantly pushing her up to another peak. When at last her quivering and throbbing has subsided, he sneaks a grin up at her, his mouth slick and bruised-looking, his face boyish in its delight.

“Trying to start the hair cutting prematurely, are you?”

“Oh, you're done already?” Margaery trills, ignoring his teasing and giving his head a bit of a shake before releasing him. “I hadn’t noticed.” The warmth of his chuckle sends a thrill up her spine. That’s another surprise she wasn’t quite prepared for; how much he seems to like her even while he wants her. He pushes her stool back and walks forward on his knees until he can straighten out from beneath her vanity to kneel between her legs, one palm on each thigh with fingers splayed, the heat of his hands burning through her silk dressing gown.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Obligingly, Margaery puts on her smile-pretty-for-the-camera face, attempting to angle her face to keep the eyeliner wobble away from him. But he’s too shrewd for her; he catches her chin in one hand and tilts her head this way and that, looking at her so thoroughly and with such warm regard that she feels herself throb, her orgasm rippling through her again like an echo.

“Hm,” he murmurs, his eyes seeming to go right to the faulty eyeliner. After a long moment, he draws his thumb over her lower lip and smiles. “Practically perfect. I suppose you win.”

“Is that honesty or chivalry speaking?” Margaery asks drily. Jon’s wink makes her laugh out loud.

“I’ll never tell,” he vows. He’s just leaned and kissed her – there goes the third coat of lipstick – when a knock sounds at the door. Jon groans, dropping his head to her chest.

“Yes?”

“Your Majesty?” Walters’ voice is muffled but unmistakable from the door. “Your advisors are here.” Then his voice lowers almost apologetically. “You were to meet with them twenty minutes ago.”

Jon groans again, his forehead thumping against her collarbone for comical effect. “Fucking Walters,” he sighs. Margaery laughs in agreement. She feels much the same.

“Have you ever noticed his uncanny ability to interrupt us at the least convenient times?” she asks.

“Noticed?” Jon raises his head to give her an arch look. “I would have fired him for it by now if I wouldn’t have been wracked with guilt afterwards.” Margaery smiles. Her lipstick has left his lips smudged with her signature peachy pink and she raises a hand to his jaw, rubbing at the color with her thumb until it’s gone.

“I suppose he keeps things interesting,” she says. Jon chuckles again. His lips are warm when he leans forward to brush them against her cheek.

“I’m not sure you need any help in that department, darling.” 

His words still warm her as he pushes to his feet and walks to the door, opening it to exchange low words with Walters. Margaery turns her attention back to her vanity – she’ll have to replace her powder and she’d really like to get that wobbly eyeliner fixed, just on the principle of it – but he ducks back in the room and calls her name. She meets his eyes in the mirror, warmth suffusing her not just at the memory of where his mouth just was, but at the satisfaction of knowing that soon she’ll take no mercy on that unruly mop of his.

“You know, one of your eyes wasn’t quite perfect,” he says slowly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I think we’d better make this best two out of three.”

She would throw her powder at him if it weren’t already on the floor, a fact he seems more than aware of as he grins and ducks out before she can find something else that would suit as a projectile.


End file.
